someone who had forgotten something and stepped back into the lift, to return to the hotel level. One of the Asians who had travelled down with him just managed to get back in with the freshly entering group. Gotcha! thought Charlie. Back at the hotel level, he went directly to the long, open-lounge bordering corridor, towards the main exit, stopping abruptly to feign interest in the antique shop at the end. His pursuer was trapped in the middle of the walkway. The man still made the effort, halting like Charlie at one of the arcade shops. You’re dead, cowboy, thought Charlie. He went further on towards the main area, wondering if there was any more surveillance.
As the taxi went towards the Ginza, Charlie decided Tokyo was a city full up with people and tight-together houses. It was the uncertain time, sticky with rainy-season heat. Although it was dry at the moment, everyone carried condom-sheathed umbrellas that by an ingenuity of engineering bloomed into the real thing at the first shower.
Charlie sat with his money ready, isolating the Akasaka Mitsuke Underground station as the car went beneath the elevated roadway and glad of the clog of traffic. He waited until the cab was practically alongside before stopping the driver, gesturing with supposed impatience at the traffic delay and thrusting notes into the man’s hand. The impression of a full-up city was greater in the subway, and as well as the people noise there was the crickets-in-the-bushes clatter of the passenger counters at the barriers. He chose a train already at the platform, not trying to check for pursuit until he was actually on board. As the doors closed, Charlie thought that if he had ?I for every time he’d used tube trains to lose a tail he could afford his own personal chiropodist. Charlie knew it would be difficult for him to spot his follower in a crowded situation of many Japanese, which was why he’d taken particular care. The man in the lift had been wearing a grey suit, muted tie, white shirt, with neither hat, topcoat nor spectacles. The mistake had been the shoes – a subject frequently on Charlie’s mind – black and polished so highly they could have been made of some plastic material. Four men nearby matched the description, except for their footwear. Charlie moved slightly and found his man at the far end of the carriage. By studying the colour coding chart, Charlie worked out that he was on the Yurakucho line; when the train hissed into Aoyama-Itchome station he realized he was going the wrong way, with too many intermediary stops. Charlie did not immediately disembark at Omatesando, wanting as many people as possible to clear ahead of him. He slipped through the closing doors as the warning bell sounded, hurrying towards the sign for the Hanazomon line, but at the last moment switching to Toei Shinjuku. He was lucky with a waiting train again and ran on. He was sweating and his ribs hurt, from having to hurry. He looked around the carriage, intent upon the feet. There was one man again at the end of the carriage who qualified, but he got off at Akasaka and Charlie reckoned it was looking good. He made another delayed departure at Hibaya, caught the first train and got off at the next stop, at Ginza. He ran up the stairs, breath groaning from him, and plunged at once into the man-wide labyrinth of paths and alleys behind the main streets, stopping frequently now, openly seeking the pursuit. There wasn’t any, but Charlie still wasn’t satisfied. He kept twisting and turning, managing to reach the larger Miyukidori Street entirely by back alleys. He remained drawn back, until he saw an unoccupied, cruising taxi, emerging to hail it at the moment of passing.
Charlie gave the location of the British embassy and sat back gratefully, wet-bodied and panting, against the upholstery. Maybe he was getting too old for all this Action Man stuff; then again, perhaps he should exercise with something heavier than a whisky glass in his hand. He saw the driver was taking him the longer way, through Marunouchi and around the park, but didn’t protest; after all the buggering about, he needed time to get his breath back.
Charlie went patiently through the identification procedure at the embassy and sat where he was told by the crisply efficient receptionist, who didn’t respond to his grin. Crabby old virgin, dismissed Charlie. Couldn’t be many left: veritable museum piece.
Richard Cartright was a thin, well tailored man whom Charlie estimated to be about thirty. There was an attempt at extra years with a thin moustache, which didn’t work and an obvious Eton tie, which always did. Charlie had tried it once but got caught out before lunch: during his early, inverted snobbery days. Cartright gave an open- faced smile, offered his hand.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said Cartright. There’s been some traffic.’ Charlie Muffin was certainly an odd- looking cove.
Thought there might be,’ said Charlie.
He followed the younger man into the rear of the embassy, where the sectioned-off, secure intelligence area was kept at arm’s if not pole’s length by the rest of the diplomatic staff. Over the door to Cartright’s office were some charm bells to ward off evil spirits, and there was a bonsai arrangement of miniature trees on the window shelf. The furniture was better than London and the carpet was genuine, Charlie saw. He hoped the charm bells worked.
‘Minimum involvement, I gather?’ said Cartright, at once.
‘For the usual reasons,’ said Charlie.
‘Nasty then?’
The man should know better than to question, thought Charlie. ‘Could be,’ he said.
‘Ready to do anything I can,’ offered Cartright.
‘I’ll remember that,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your guidance from London?’
Cartright indicated the prepared and waiting dossier. ‘Always necessary to obtain clearance.’
Harkness, guessed Charlie. He said: ‘I want a blank British passport, picture slot and nameplace empty.’
Cartright made a sucking noise, breathing in. ‘Means involving a recognized diplomatic department of the embassy,’ he said. ‘No one likes that. Why didn’t you bring one from London?’
Because it didn’t occur to me until I was on the plane and thinking of all the possible ways of getting her out, thought Charlie. ‘Couldn’t do it for me as a favour, I suppose?’
Precisely the sort of thing Harkness had alerted him to report, realized Cartright. He didn’t like spying on his own side. He said: ‘Not without London finding out. Have to be Foreign Office clearance. You know what they’re like about official documents.’
‘Don’t I just!’ said Charlie. He wondered if that security complaint had been squashed or merely postponed.
‘Sorry,’ said the Tokyo Resident.
‘Not your fault,’ accepted Charlie. It was actually unfair to ask the man.
‘Sensitive?’ asked Cartright.
‘What?’ replied Charlie, intentionally misunderstanding.
‘Whoever you’re getting out?’ Harkness’s instructions were to test the other man. Dislike it as he might, Cartright saw himself as someone trying to establish a career, and if he were going to do that it required a ruthlessness beyond his upbringing scruples.
Nosey bugger or primed? wondered Charlie. In fairness, he supposed the passport request made it obvious. Still wrong; wrong to ask and wrong to respond at any length. He said: ‘Could be.’
Cartright noted the reservation and felt embarrassed. Trying to cover the awkwardness, he said: ‘I could ask London about a passport issue. Ambassador won’t like it, I should warn you. He doesn’t believe decent chaps read other chaps’ mail and actually uses words like rotter. He’d have to be consulted, of course.’ If he did it that way he would have complied with the orders from London and still not betrayed a colleague.
‘Do you know the American head of station?’
‘Art Fredericks,’ identified Cartright, at once. ‘Met him a few times at embassy things … receptions, stuff like that.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Huge man …’ began Cartright, but Charlie said: ‘I meant as a person.’
‘Came here six months after me,’ started Cartright again, pausing momentarily for the calculation. ‘Just over three years then. Takes part in most of the sports events the US embassy puts on. Word is that he’s ambitious.’
‘What’s the full CIA complement here?’ asked Charlie.
‘Three, including him,’ said Cartright, at once.
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. I like to know the competition, even if it’s friendly.’
‘
‘Amicable,’ said Cartright, in qualification. ‘Depends if they’re asking or telling.’
Charlie realized he was lucky that Cartright was so certain of the CIA staffing: it gave him a figure to work
